Never and Always

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh
manischewitz what a world, ain’a? And I don’t know about you, but I’m
having one heck of a hard time believing it’s already the fourth month
of this new year. Cripes, here I am still in negotiations with the
aftereffects of the hangover I came down with the first of January and
apparently the Masters golf tournament has now come and gone not to
mention I probably forgot to file that extension I should’ve with the
IRS. It’s like I’m Death Row and all I can say is “I wonder where the
time goes,” ’cause that’s all I can say, what the fock.

Yeah
yeah, here we are and “April is the cruellest month,” so said that poet
from out of St. Louis, Eliot what-his-name. And I can only agree. It’s
cruel in the way it leaves me abso-focking-lutely depressed on account
of the joy that my fellow man and woman express with the shedding of
their snowpants.Do they not realize that right after our week-to-ten days of springtime—

that
we, at least me, are smack-dab back into the Dante’s inferno hell of
heat, humidity, stupidity, all kind of insects, and chowderheads with
no school, no jobs, no shirts, doing their thing and disturbing my
peace? I think not.

And April, this month, cruel, to electorally remind
me how piss-poorly the Art Kumbalek Democracy Express 2008 For Any and
All Political Office has performed to now. Even though I’ve done my
best to run a low-key campaign, keep my name out of the papers and to
refuse campaign donations from tainted corporate lobbyists if none were
offered, I have failed to be elected either mayor, alderman,
supervisor, some-kind-of-judge, commissioner, registrar, and who knows
what-the-fock else. Thanks for your support.

Allow me to
reiterate the ideology I would apply to any political office remaining
that I could get elected to, which I’m guessing would leave only
president of your United States.
So, to all you remaining undecided “superdelegates,” here’s the deal:
Longer tavern hours from sea to shining sea; better looking
prostitutes, across the board; mandatory prayer on the public
transportation and mandatory learning in the public schools with
big-time pay raises for the teachers to boot—if the minimum salary for
a Major League Baseball player is somewhere about $327,000 a year, my
teacher friend Todd over at that Tenor High School on Jackson St. and
each and every one of the teachers in all the grade schools and high
schools ought to pull down at least half that for what they do. I like
baseball, but what the fock. I’m thinking the effort to bunt some young
lives into scoring position is worth more dough than that paid to those
who sit on a bench, scratch thy scrotumnal area and spit the juice de
la tobacco.

And this Earth Day we always have in April. To me,
it’s a lot like this S w e e t e s t Day—big focking deal. But if you
elect me as your president, I promise that I will make Earth Day just
like a regular bona fide holiday where you get paid eight-hours off
from work so’s you can go visit relatives and drink their beer all day.

And speaking of recycling, let’s talk taxes. And what about
taxes? I don’t know what to tell you. Being a guy who over the years
has discovered that he’s got not much pot to pee in, me and income
taxes don’t go so well together, which is another reason I always get
so damn depressed this time of year. Hell, why should I pay any
“income” tax anyways? I already gave. I tell you, what I cough up in
the so-called “sin” taxes on mental health products like your Old Crow
and Pall Malls in one year alone has just got to be more than any two
rich Republican knobshines weasel into paying on income in their entire
focking lives, I kid you not.

I say the government ought to
forget the income tax and go to a voluntary pledge drive instead, like
your NPR and PBS. Seems to work for them, ain’a? You decide how much
dough you want to chip in for the government and if it’s a nice enough
amount they send you a nice tote bag for your tote, an Uncle Sam Tshirt
and maybe the CD box set of the Navy Band recorded live at
Sousa-palooza 1995. Are you in? So what the fock, it’s spring, and I
can’t help but recall some words by the T.S. Eliot poet, who
interpreted for the layman Abbott & Costello’s “Who’s On First?”
routine this way:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end
of our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place
for the first time.

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